


desideratum

by rubyboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Dean Winchester, Always-a-girl!Sam Winchester, Consensual Sex, F/F, Fem!Dean Winchester - Freeform, Fem!John Winchester, First Time, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Lesbian Sex, Mentions of alcohol, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fem!Sam Winchester - Freeform, girl!Dean Winchester - Freeform, girl!Sam Winchester - Freeform, referenced self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyboys/pseuds/rubyboys
Summary: //Sam could see where the white insides of Dean’s thighs had mottled in great red and purple shapes, bruises from where Sam had kissed too hard. Once she noticed them, it was hard to stop looking.//





	

**Author's Note:**

> a quick and pointless fem!wincest oneshot because there's not enough sapphic in this lovely fandom <3

Let me--let me, Dean. Let me. F--please. 

Shit, I want you to fuck me, Sammy. 

// 

The headache greets Sam before anything else upon waking up, with a cinching grip on either side of her nose. It’s a blurry, bright morning, coated with a thick, sour smell, as she opens her eyes. She sees the pale edge of Dean’s cheek against the beige curtains, filtering in broken light. The smell must be Dean’s morning breath, matching where it falls quietly over Sam’s neck. 

Ugh, Sam’s head hurts. 

She hasn’t slept long enough to forget the night before. That might’ve been good, in fact, like a kind of gentle lead-in to the ugly facts. Instead, it’s like this: They hunted. They drank. They fucked. 

They slept. And Sam woke up first. 

The sheets are hot and wrinkled, clinging to the creases around Sam’s thighs and hips. Dean’s ass is soft and pink, exposed like the nude parts of the heroine of some sinful, ancient painting. Sinful is the right word. Dean looked like sin. She was sin, last night. Hungry-mouthed and grinding, pushing back needily on Sam’s thighs--Dean came apart, naked and keening in Sam’s arms. But she’s just lying there now, sleeping. 

When Dean sleeps, she looks like Sam’s big sister, and Sam feels like a little kid again. Dean: freckles and pouting. Not a whorey, urgent lover. A sibling. 

Sam’s head really fucking hurts. 

// 

Sam could see where the white insides of Dean’s thighs had mottled in great red and purple shapes, bruises from where Sam had kissed too hard. Once she noticed them, it was hard to stop looking. The lovebites were bold, brazen, sickeningly bright reminders of the sins committed last night, tallying up the guilt and the shame and the fear on one side, and things like incest and hell and family shame on the other--and Dean wore them the way she wore scars and wounds from battle: with a cold and absolute disregard. 

But Sam knew Dean, knew her like she knew herself. Once, when Dean was a teenager and Sam wasn’t quite yet one, Sam had stepped into the bathroom pinch-eyed in the middle of the night, her too-big brown feet slapping the tiles as a split-second warning to Dean. She caught her big sister pantsless, astride the sink counter, legs splayed and bleeding and packed with tissues, a hairy razor in her hand. Sam had frowned, confused. Dean looked as though she was in pain, and briefly pictures of offensive leaflets from persistent school counsellors jumped into play in Sam’s mind: Self-Harm: A Noisy Addiction and Don’t Hurt Yourself! Love Yourself. But Dean wasn’t there to hurt herself; she was raking away the pubes that made her the strong, big, grown-up teenager she was. Who for? Under the tissues, her pale vulva was spotted with bright red, and Sam saw it all, and couldn’t understand. 

“Dean?” she’d asked, her own thighs drawn together where she needed to pee, searching Dean’s face. Dean’s lip had curled, snide, and she bit out, “Never seen a pussy before, Sam?” 

Cheeks hot and pink, Sam got back into bed, and held in her pee until Dean returned to the place beside her and starting snoring. (Dean’s pubes grew back quickly after that. They prickled Sam’s legs through her pants when they shared beds, and as far as Sam knows, Dean’s always kept herself hairy since then.) 

And Sam had liked it last night. The soft stuff against her cheek was what made the pussy so definably, undeniably Dean’s. With Dean’s firm clit in Sam’s mouth, that was what got Sam off the most. Who knew she had such an incest kink, hey? 

Dean did care; she had to. 

But then she scrubs a flannel roughly and casually between her legs, throws it down, and bends her short brown hair back beneath the spray of the shower. To her, the lovebites seemed to be nothing, and Sam wasn’t even there, on the toilet, and she just wanted to get the shampoo off her scalp. Inexplicably, childishly, Sam yanks the toilet chain and strides out of the room, hearing Dean swear and yelp slightly at the cold under the sound of the rush of water and the blood thumping in Sam’s ears.

Too much coffee. Not enough sleep. A bitch of a big sister. And a sin that will make Sam too embarrassed to meet the eyes of her father if she gets into Heaven. Surely, all that’s why Sam’s in this mood. 

Sam hangs her head, breathes, hands curled around the waistband of her jeans where she hasn’t yet done it up. It’s hot, and her hair hangs around her face like a curtain. Sam’s always kept her hair long. Having an accessible makeshift curtain has been handy growing up. And now it keeps her looking kind, she thinks; offsets the hard line of her jaw and her buff arms. 

Dean’s always kept her hair short, just like Mom. Sometimes boys would ask Dean why she wanted so much to look like a lesbian. And then Dean would come home, lips swollen and cracked, eye socket turned blue, with a grin like a pirate’s and breath stinking of cock. “He got bit,” Dean once murmured flippantly, to explain why the gangly boy had hit her. Mom had raised her eyebrows and laughed and slapped Dean on the shoulder. Dean’s collarbone was bruised too, but she didn’t even wince. That was something else that Sam didn’t understand until she was older. But it was an abiding memory that, in Sam’s eyes, always marked out the real viciousness and courage that made Dean the warrior she was. Nowadays, now that Dean’s eyes are straddled by lines like Mom’s were, and her smile is more like a tight grimace, bruised sometimes like her inner thighs--now, Sam remembers Dean as a stupid, angry kid, always pretending to be tough. Maybe that’s why it was so fucking satisfying to make Dean come, grinding needily up against Sam’s face, fingers in her hair, gasping like she’d never been fingered before. Last night, Dean felt like a plaything in Sam’s hands, barely drunk, with pupils too big for the cold lighting by the cheap bed. Her mouth was soft, slipping needily against Sam’s, and sometimes she said, “Ah--Sammy,” and shut her mouth quickly, only to open up within seconds for another sharp inhale or trembling sigh. 

The noise of the shower stops, and Sam can’t watch Dean play tough this morning. “M’goin’ out--coffee,” she calls, zipping up her jeans and shoving her dark old boots on. 

“Yeah,” Dean calls back carelessly, and Sam grabs the keys and tries to resist the temptation to slam the door like she might’ve when she was a teenager. She doesn't quite manage it, and the stupid bang leaves the doorframe squeaking uneasily for a few seconds. 

“Jerk,” Sam mutters spitefully. 

// 

Dean has a tattoo on the underside of her left arm. SAMMY, it says, in oozing gooey print like in the old-style horror movies they marathon-watched as kids. The first half of the second M healed weirdly, thin and wobbly, and Dean always said she was gonna go back and get it touched up. She also said she was gonna get DAD on her forearm and maybe MOM too, but it’s been a few years since the first one, and now it’s just a weird sort of norm that Dean bears her sister’s name on her skin. “Not like I’m your property or anything, you ass,” she said after she got it done, “but like, kind of, Andy’s name on Woody’s boot in Toy Story. I don’t know. It makes sense to me and I was drunk anyway and you talked me into it, so why don’t you shut it, huh?” Sam had smiled small and not really said anything else about it. She wasn’t gonna get a tattoo of Dean’s name. She didn’t need to. 

Last night, Sam bit down on it as she rode out her orgasm, making tears brighten up the black of Dean’s blown pupils. 

// 

Don't regret this, okay? I want this, Dean, I really do, I really--fuck, fuck, fucking do. 

Just kiss me.

**Author's Note:**

> my first proper fic for this fandom, and my first one that i've posted, so let me know what you think :)  
> also it's totally unbeta'd ahhh


End file.
